


the batter's box

by antigravityhats



Series: The Joys of Cooking and Other Various Emotions [1]
Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Mental Instability, Overstimulation, Panic Attacks, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:02:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26614912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antigravityhats/pseuds/antigravityhats
Summary: A deep not quite breath. Grab the not quite bat with their not quite hands. Firm up their not quite grip and focus. Another breath. They got this. They are ready. They step up to the plate.They are not ready.
Series: The Joys of Cooking and Other Various Emotions [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2032519
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	the batter's box

A deep not quite breath. Grab the not quite bat with their not quite hands. Firm up their not quite grip and focus. Another breath. They got this. They are ready. They step up to the plate.

They are not ready. They flinch.

The ball shot past them like the weapon it was, their not quite heart thundering through their being as panic threatened to overwhelm them, stopped only by the fact that it did not have the time to consume them. The next pitch comes before the first even hits the catcher’s glove. They swing, channeling the panic, sending the ball soaring off into the darkness. They score a home run. The scoreboard stays 0. They step up to the plate again.

To exist is a horrid thing. They decided that the moment Jaylen’s pitch had slammed into them - the real them not the vessel they had inhabited - and they had _felt_ it. They had felt it burn through the cover of the book they had once been in a way they had never felt anything before. They weren’t _real_ before then - at least not physically. But now? Now they were very real.

They step up to the plate.

They weren’t sure if it was the pitch itself or just a part of this place they were now trapped, but the being that had once been a book had physicality now. They felt the air of the pitches zipping past them. They felt the vibration down the bat they held - no, not theirs, never theirs - into their not quite arms every time they made contact with the ball. They felt the hot coals that were the mark Jaylen left on them simmering in their not quite chest.

They step up to the plate. They are afraid.

No. No. They are not afraid. M̶̟̥͒̚o̶̧̊o̴͖̺͙̿́̿͘d̶̗̟͎̾̃̕͜y̵͍̝̭̅͂̎̅̃̏̈́ ̵̢̪̳̏̇͂̉̿̾̄C̵̡̼̲͉͌͋̀o̸̗͔̯̤̩̖̭̕ȏ̴̺̖̌̇́̊͜k̵̜̥̓̅̈͝b̴̳̠̣̥͒͒ŏ̷̥͍͈͎̦͚̄̽̏̚o̵̧̯̯͔͑͌͊̉͛ķ̷̥͈̖͐̑ is never - 

They choke on the name as they think it, the curse on this place heavy over them. It was theirs, but they cannot claim it for themself here. It hurts to think. It’s impossible to say. It is lost to them here just as they are lost to the world. 

They step up to the plate. 

They try to ground themself, but the rules here are different. They can see nothing but the dark and the ball and the field. They can touch nothing other than the bat that wasn’t theirs and the glove they had never owned and sometimes, in the rare moments the game slows, the people trapped here with them. They can hear nothing but the game and the players, all suffocating under the weight of the words that this place refuses to let them say. They can smell nothing but fire and ash of lingering incineration. They can taste nothing but despair and fear and guilt.

Please not again. They step up to the plate.

A familiar voice cuts through the dark. It’s faint and echoes like talking into a fishbowl as it pushes its way through the void. _Night dad._ Paula. Oh Paula. They ache, down to their not quite heart, every bit of them reaching out, wanting. But she's not talking to them. Not this piece of them anyway. It's hard, keeping that piece of them out there, but if Landry can do it so can they. For her. Even if the Monitor doesn't like it.

They step up to the plate. They can do this. Be strong. For her. For all of them. They can keep it together.

They're not alone here anyway. It is a relief as much as it is an agony, that there are names in this place that they still have even if they have lost their own.

Landry. He was already here. Already waiting, not quite eyes filled with something they read as pity. They hated that look on him. It was wrong. Landry was all sharp grins and fire and spark and impatience. Or at least, he should be.

They step up to the plate.

Yazmin. Oh Roe. Their Roe. From their reality. The last person who deserved this. She flickered here. They take comfort in the thought that it means a part of her is somewhere else. It is one last hope that they take deep into themself and lock away where this place cannot touch.

They step up to the plate.

Pio. That one had hurt. Yes, Yazmin had hurt too, but Scorp was a shock that left them reeling. They had been the one to die. It should've just been them. It shouldn't have been anyone else. The relief they had felt at their own death - that it had been them and not one of the others - evaporated into the void. And Pio. Of all the names to have down here. Scorp was too bright for a dark place like this.

They step up to the plate.

Dom and Sosa. A wound fresh and an old wound reopened. Sosa is a blessing here, a rock in every way. Dom is… strange. He is both here and not. They wish they could ask him what that was like for a being born human to not quite exist as they did, but they do not get the chance.

They step up to the plate.

Then, abruptly, the world is different. All at once a list cuts through the dark, lighting up a bright sickly blue that makes their not quite skin crawl. It feels wrong. They don't need to read to know what it is. The reactions around them are enough. For the first time since they died, the game grinds to a halt. They can feel the hope that sparks from one player to the next around them. It incites hunger. Joy. Desperation. Despair. It is a gift and a curse all in one.

They adjust their not quite grip on the bat as the Monitor slips through the darkness. They feel its presence like a pressure on their very being. They hate it. They hate it in a way they have never hated anything before. This was it’s fault. What this place was was their domain. It speaks of making a deal. Not with them, no, that would be too easy. There is very little left that the Monitor could take from them. They know it just as well as it does. They watch the numbers rise, taking their name with it and all at once they understand. The deal is with the living.

Gods they want to live.

The thought crashes through them like a shock wave, unbidden and unrepentant. It is dark and feral and threatens to consume them, strangling them with a hope they hadn't dared to have. They couldn’t. They couldn’t let themself believe there was a solution so easily within reach. It would only make it worse when it got torn away again. They couldn’t. And yet, they did. And then all at once as quick as it came, it ebbs, flowing back to be replaced by something else.

It's not their turn.

The other names flicker up there, shifting rapidly up and up and up, and they know. They know it cannot be them. They won't allow it. If they can stop it, they will. They can take it here. They can last. There are other more important names than their own. Other names that cannot handle this place. Those that had been here longer and most importantly those who were _theirs_. Their kids.

The game starts up again.

They step up to the plate.

They will protect them. They will get them out. They will they will they will they swear it. Please. Please not their name. Please numbers stop going up. Please anyone. Anyone but them.

They step up to the plate.

Please let it be me too. _No._

The thing inside of them weeps, their not quite heart at war with itself. They miss them. All of them. So much that they scarcely know what to do with it.

Dunlap and his theatrics and his drive and his spirit. Hiroto, weird and stable and unapologetically herself. Fish. Fishstick. Brave and loving and desperate for love. Paula. Swede. Strong and kind and stubborn as hell.

They wanted to be home again. To make a big meal for them and whatever strangers they happened to drag in with them this week. To get them out of trouble and help them through whatever silly dramatics they inevitably would get themselves into. They missed it. They missed it. They wanted to go back more than anything. 

Well, nearly anything.

They step up to the plate.

It is both the easiest and the hardest thing they’ve ever had to do to send a piece of themself out through the void. But it was the only thing to do. To let them know that, yes, they were all still here. And, yes, please, let me stay here. Take them instead. They can handle waiting. It’s okay. _Take me. Take me. Need me._

They step up to the plate.

There is nothing they wouldn’t do. No price they wouldn’t pay to be able to get them all out of this place. To be able to think about all of them, alive, together, and happy. As a family. Even if it killed them to think that they wouldn’t get to be a part of it anymore.

They step up to the plate, steel their heart, and swing.

  
  
  



End file.
